


Under the Skin

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Castiel's Loss of Angelic Grace (Supernatural), Fic Facer$ Charity Auction 2020 (Supernatural), Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Or not, Season/Series 10, pre-destiel, read it how you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25709056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: The Mark still thirsts for blood, and when Cas goes missing on their latest case, Dean might just fall off the edge.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31
Collections: FicFacer$ 2020





	Under the Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all the participants and mods of the 2020 round of Fic Facer$.
> 
> My prompter asked for "a female character who somehow gets pulled into the hunt to help, and ends up being a confidant to at least one of the boys"
> 
> Hope I did what you wanted!
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses!) Mal's a great friend, so please go check out her work too.
> 
> Enjoy!

Eight people vanishing in a thirty day time period was unusual, but Dean wasn’t convinced it was their type of weird until the bodies were slowly discovered. One in a drainage ditch and another shortly after behind a restaurant dumpster. They popped up, one after another, all exsanguinated. He loaded up his gear, Sam, and a reluctant Castiel out of the bunker towards Salt Lake City.

“Okay,” Dean said, handing Cas an updated FBI badge, “just let Sam and me do the talking, and follow our lead.”

“I’ve done this before,” Cas snipped before exiting the car. Dean looked at Sam, who only shrugged, his eyes sharing his confusion. 

There were several police cars barricading the caution tape, and just a few yards further back, Dean saw the forensics expert taking photos. 

The sheriff stood out easy enough in his cowboy hat, and Dean approached him with his usual on-the-hunt swagger. 

“FBI,” he said, flipping his badge too briefly for serious inspection. “I’m Agent Fogerty, this is Cook,” he pointed at Sam, “and Clifford,” to Castiel.

The sheriff rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Another one? Don’t you boys up in D.C. got better things to do?”

“Pardon?” Sam said, leaning forward. The sheriff gestured behind him with an open thumb.

“Already got one of your people out here. Look, I know this case is big—can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it in my career—but it’s not call-the-Feds big.”

Dean forces a smile. “Can we please see the body?”

The sheriff gave a beleaguered sigh and swept his arm out. “Have at it,” he said, and stepped away.

Cas moved in front of them, ducking underneath the caution tape. Dean and Sam followed.

Besides the forensic photographer, there was a woman in a large coat, with round glasses, taking photos on her cell phone. She heard them coming up behind her and turned. 

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Dean estimated she was about their age, maybe just a year or two younger. They rarely ran into the real FBI on hunts. As the sheriff pointed out, it usually wasn’t enough to ping anything on their radar; most of the time cases were chalked up to an animal attack, or an unfortunate accident. While Cas stepped forward and began observing the body—-a shriveled mess of a middle-aged man—Dean cocked his best grin.

“We’re FBI,” he said.

Her lips twitched. “Well, get in line. I was here first.”

“Can we see your ID?” Sam asked.

The woman fumbled into her jacket pockets. Her hands were shaking. Dean only needed to see the barest glimpse to confirm what he already suspected. He looked at Sam. Sam’s eyes narrowed and he nodded.

“Let’s walk,” Dean said, gesturing to the row of trees just a few yards further back. The woman—Mei Nguyen, by the badge— followed reluctantly. 

Once they were out of earshot, Sam took charge. 

“Okay, who are you really?” 

“I told you, I’m FBI. What, you surprised to see a woman in this field? Think I can’t handle it?”

Dean resisted rolling his eyes. “I know a woman can handle it. But you’re not FBI.” he snatched the badge out of her hands. “Surprised you got this far with this piece of crap. You really should ask Kinko’s for a refund. This lamination sucks.”

“Impersonating a government official is a felony,” Sam said, and Dean huffed at the irony. “So tell us who you really are, or things are about to get a whole lot worse for you.”

Mei stared at them. She bit her lip, then all the tension fell out of her body. “I’m a journalist.” 

“Figures.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Who’s your paper?” 

“I run my own blog.” She tilted her chin up high in pride. “ _ The Truth Undug.  _ I have over two million followers currently.”

“Good for you. Why are you here?” Dean didn’t bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Same reason you are.” She shrugged. “To find out what’s happening to all these people.”

“Look, Mei, is it?” Sam asked. “You should go home. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved in this. It’s messy.”

Mei huffed. “I’m fine, thank you. Not my first body.” 

“You do this regularly?” Sam asked.

“I got what I needed,” she said, and began to turn away. “I’ll leave you boys to it.”

“Hey, wait.” Dean snapped his fingers. “Phone? Photo? Give it here.”

She flipped her hair. “Do you have a warrant?” 

Dean blanched. 

“Didn’t think so.” She ducked under the tape and walked down the road.

“Let it go,” Sam said, clapping his shoulder. They walk back to meet Cas. Cas knelt in the grass, head titled. 

“See anything?” Sam asked. Cas squinted. 

“It’s strange. I can’t put my finger on it, quite, but there is something. . . different about this body.”

“Different how?” Dean asked.

Cas sniffed. “It smells inhuman. But I can’t identify the smell.”

“Sam’s taco farts will do that to you.”

Sam elbowed him in the ribs. 

The body was nearly flat, devoid of all liquids. Dean swallowed the bile that burned at his throat. Over thirty years of this. and it still made him shiver. 

“I don’t see any bite marks,” Cas said, turning the head left to right. “There doesn’t seem to be any external or internal wounds anywhere.” Cas pointed to a birthmark on the man’s left wrist. “This is all I can find.”

“It looks like a djinn’s handiwork,” Sam said. “The exsanguination.” 

“Yeah, but eight in a month? In such a small area? They’re usually not that messy,” Dean said.

“Usually.” Cas stood and wiped his hands off on his pants. He coughed into his elbow and glared at the inquisitive stare Dean and Sam gave. 

“Okay,” Dean said, “here’s the plan: Cas and I will go look at the other bodies. Sam why don’t you go and talk to —” his eyes glanced down at the gold wedding band “Mrs. Drained-and-Deflated.” 

“Gross, Dean.”

Dean shrugged and rubbed at his arm. The Mark itched. 

. 

.

.

Sam shifted, uncomfortable in the living room of Mrs. McIntyre. Every wall was adorned with crosses and paintings, and no matter where he sat, all the eyes seemed to be staring directly down on him. 

Her hands shook as she came in from the kitchen and handed him a cup of tea. 

“Thanks,” Sam said, forcing a smile. 

“So, you’re here to ask about Miles?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded. “Mhm. It’s just, I already spoke with the police.”

“We’re just being thorough. Maybe there’s something you forget the first time around, or something you didn’t think was important then is important now. Did Miles have any enemies?”

She blinked away tears. “I can’t imagine. Everyone loved him. He worked at an insurance office, was the choir director at our church. The church organized the search party when he first went missing.”

Sam looked around. The paintings depicted angels fighting demons, or sitting on the stairs of Heaven. He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to avoid the calculating gaze Mrs. McIntyre was giving him.

“Do you believe in God, agent?”

Sam sipped his tea. It was warm and sweet. “You could say that,” he managed, eventually. She hummed and stared down into her cup, perplexed.

Sam leaned over and wrapped her hands in his. He looked into her eyes imploringly. “Mrs. McIntyre, please. If there’s anything, anything at all, that you think could help us, now is the time to speak.”

Her eyes trembled. “You’ll think I’m crazy,” she whispered. Sam shook his head.

“I promise, I won’t. I’ve heard it all before.”

She cleared her throat, and her eyes slid down to the faded, shag carpet that had been there since the early eighties. “Well, there is Isaiah. . .” 

  
  


_ Four Hours Earlier. . . _

He and Cas didn’t talk during the drive. The music was low, but it thrummed through the dashboard, through his steering wheel, and Dean tapped along to the beat. Every so often, he would glance at Cas, who was staring at the window. Occasionally, Cas coughed into his fist. He tried to cover it up with the music, but the sound was unmistakable.

The questions rested on his tongue:  _ How bad is it? How long do you have? We’ll call Crowley, get some more juice from him _ .

Dean stayed silent. Like the scar on his arm, the issue of Cas’s waning grace was one that seemed insurmountable. Metatron was once again in a cell in Heaven, and he would not give up the location of Cas’s grace. Heaven and Hell were silent on removing the Mark from his arm. 

The motel was their usual flavor of tacky and seedy, but the front desk didn’t do credit checks, and the last thing they needed was the real FBI coming down on their asses. Dean parked the car in front of the door. Cas got out and went to the truck, unloading bags. 

Dean paused, about to offer a hand, then shut his mouth, knowing what the response would be. Cas was slower than in the past, but he still managed to wrap both Dean and Sam’s duffels around his shoulder. Dean opened the door and turned on the lights.

Dean got a trundle bed from the front desk. Cas hadn’t said anything to either of the Winchesters, but more than once Dean found him asleep in one of the uncomfortable chairs in the library. He knew Cas wouldn’t ask, and it was better than him sleeping on the floor or in the car. If he used it, great. If not, nothing lost.

Cas stared at the bed, then put the duffels onto the bed closest to the door.

“Okay,” Dean clapped his hands. “Sam’ll interview the widow, we’ll regroup, and come up with a game plan.”

Cas sat on the foot of the bed. It squeaked under his weight. “What do you suggest we do until then?”

Dean thought about it for a moment, then he took out his laptop. He wracked his brain for the website that the lady had mentioned, but he couldn’t remember. He typed “Mei Nguyen” into the search bar instead, and a blog was the first result.

“That lady at the site said she was covering the cases,” Dean explained, scrolling down the page. “Maybe there’s something here that can help us.” After a minute, Cas stood and looked over Dean’s shoulder. The blog was organized by date, and the most recent update was about the sixth victim, found on the bank of the lake. 

_ Animal attack, or homicide _ ? The headline read.

_ Salt Lake City would have you believe that the recent string of disappearances and subsequent deaths is the unfortunate result of a vicious mountain lion. But what lion do you know of that sucks its victim’s blood out like a Happy Hour margarita on a Friday afternoon?  _

“Good grief,” Dean rolled his eyes. “This sounds like tin-hat conspiracy shit.”

“She’s not wrong, though,” Cas said. “This is not the work of a mountain lion.”

The other pictures were all very similar to the scene they came across today. Bodies found usually in the early morning hours, not carefully hidden, with no visible wounds, but completely depleted of blood. Dean’s eyes started to glaze over, as all the words bled together.

Then, the computer dinged. 

_ Mei is live! _

“Hm, well, that’s interesting.” Dean clicked on the link. Mei was sitting at a desk.

“Hey, mystery buddies,” she began, adjusting her glasses. “The case of the empty bodies deepens. Guess what? The FBI is here investigating the case now. Clearly, they don’t have faith in our local PD. And neither do I, if you’ve seen how they operate.” 

Dean snorted. “Yeah, they’ll just let anyone flash an FBI badge and walk past them.”

“Dean, is that woman in this motel?”

“What?”

Cas reached over Dean’s shoulder and pointed at the screen. “Look— that wallpaper matches ours.”

Dean waited for Mei to move, and sure enough, behind her was the same vomit-green wall flower, with specks of white peppered throughout. 

“Think about it,” she continued, walking around the room, pouring coffee. “A mountain lion would, like, eat the body parts, right? Legs, arms, sides. These people aren’t missing anything— not even organs. Just their blood.” She sipped her coffee and the steam fogged up her glasses. “The police don’t expect anyone to believe this, right? They’re clearly hiding something.”

She crossed the room, where she had a map of the state pinned with thumbtacks. Dean briefly thought,  _ well, there goes her security deposit _ . Several spots were marked with a small red X.

“These are the spots where the bodies were found,” she said, waving her hand in front of the map. “As you can see, they’re all sort of spread out. I can’t see a pattern. But—” She turned and sat back down. “I have figured out that all the missing people shopped at the same Piggly Wiggly, and all of them had been there just a few days before they went missing. Another coincidence?” She shrugged. “You decide. I’m Mei Nguyen, and I’ll be back soon to hit ya with the facts!” She winked, and the screen turned black. 

_ Livestream Ended _ — _ Uploading to Archive  _

Dean leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. “I hate the Internet,” he groaned into his palms. Whose idea was it to give any crazy person a microphone to the entire world? 

“Should we investigate this Piggly Wiggly?” Cas asked.

“Knock yourself out.” Dean closed the laptop. “The only thing you’ll find is some overpriced quinoa.”

“It’s a connection between the victims.”

“It’s weak.”

Cas shrugged. “What else do we have?”

“We’ll wait for Sam to finish his interviews, and we’ll go from there.”

Dean felt Cas’s frown burning into his back. “That will take hours. Another person could go missing in that time.”

“You want to go check it out, Cas? Go. Meanwhile, I’ll wait here, not wasting time.”

Cas scowled and stomped out the room. He slammed the door and the pictures shook on the wall. Dean sighed again and scratched at his arm, pulling the sleeve up to get at the Mark better. It was an itch that could never be sated; deep under his skin, twisted up in the nerve endings. He gnashed his teeth together and scratched and scratched until his fingernails had blood stuck under them.

The scratches were light and barely bleeding, but he walked to the sink and washed his arm anyway. The cold water stung in a good way, and Dean exhaled through his teeth. 

He thought back to Mei’s video and realized she had done a lot of work on this investigation. She wasn’t far off the mark. The sheriff was lying; this was not a mountain lion. He opened the laptop back up and re-watched the livestream, slowing it down in parts. There was a brief glimpse of her computer screen, and Dean could make out crime scene photos. Then, when she moved and the camera caught the door, the number 81 flashed. Dean quickly deduced it was backwards in the lens—18 was her room number.

Dean put his suit jacket back on, grabbed his badge, and went out the door. 

.

.

.

“Agent,” Mei greeted when she finally opened the door.

“Show me your photos.”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“Don’t play dumb. I saw your video.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh. Can I come in?”

She stepped aside, and Dean entered. The first thing he saw was the map. Dean walked up to the map and looked at it.

“Knock yourself out,” she said. “I’ve stared at that thing so long it’s given me a migraine. See if you find the pattern.”

Some Xs were just a few miles from each other. Others were on the other side of the city. One body was found on the south side of the lake, another on the north side. There was no distinct shape, no code to be broken.

“Sloppy,” Dean muttered, shaking his head.

“Right? I thought serial killers were supposed to be methodic. This guy’s just dumping and running.”

Dean frowned. “Show me the photos on your computer.”

She scoffed. “You have that warrant yet?”

“Look, Mei, we can go through the whole bells and whistles, do all the paperwork, and maybe another coupla people will die while we wait for a piece of paper to get the right stamp up at D.C. Meanwhile, you’ll be under scrutiny, and if I’m gonna have to get a warrant, I’ll go the whole nine-yards and turn over every piece of furniture in your apartment because I’m not convinced you’re not involved. You’ve been at every crime scene, and killers like to hang around, watch the chaos. We can do that, or you can just show me the photos.”

The speech wasn’t rehearsed, but Dean felt proud of how smooth and sophisticated it came out. Mei chewed on her lip and shifted on her feet.

“Fine,” she pouted. “Where are your partners?”

“Investigating.”

“And they left you behind? Interesting.”

Dean had been trying not to think about why Sam didn’t suggest they go on interviews together. He knew the answer. Ever since he. . . killed those people that tried to hurt Claire, Sam and Cas were wary around him. Waiting for him to break. 

“The boss doesn’t scrub toilets,” Dean said.

“She does if she wants to keep employees,” Mei said as she typed in her password. “Otherwise, you’ll have a different person scrubbing your toilet every week.” She shoved the laptop into Dean’s arms and sat down on the bed, arms crossed. “There.”

Dean scrolled through her album. Some of the photos were ones he’d seen on her site already, but most were unpublished. Seven victims, each in a different spot, but looking similar to one another nonetheless. 

“So,” Dean said, “you think these guys went missing from the Piggly Wiggly? I don’t think I’ve seen one of those since I was a kid.”

“Oh, it’s the big dig around these parts. When you can’t smoke or drink or have fun, and premarital sex is the worst thing a kid can do to tarnish their parents’ good names, people get their kicks however they can.”

Dean pulled a face, but bit his tongue.

“Plus, I’m the manager.”

“Next time, lead with that.”

Mei grinned, pleased with herself. “Here,” she said, gesturing for the laptop. Dean handed it over. She typed on it for a minute, balanced in one arm, then turned the screen to Dean.

“These are the electronic receipts for the past thirty days. I made a seperate folder for our victims.”

“Our?”

She continued, ignoring him. “See anything peculiar?” 

Dean squinted. No receipt was the same. Richie Speck, the first victim, bought junk food and acid reflux medicine. Lily May, the second victim, bought groceries, baby formula, and a gossip magazine. The others followed a similar pattern—nothing stood out to Dean. They all were normal items one would get at a small grocery shop.

“It’s not where you expect,” Mei said, sitting on the bed. She crossed her legs and waited patiently.

When Dean did see it, it was like a slap in the face. “Everyone checked out at register four.”

“And, everyone checked out after three p.m. That’s shift change to our closers.”

Dean swallowed. “So, you think one of your employees is responsible for this?”

She raised her hands in a noncommittal gesture. “Didn’t say that. I’m just saying, for a group that has nothing in common, that’s one big thing in common.”

Dean’s phone rang. He put the laptop on the bed and answered when he saw Sam’s number.

“Yeah?”

“Is Cas with you?” Sam was panicked.

Dean covered the speaker with his hand and turned away from Mei. “What’s going on?”

“This thing’s not taking humans, Dean. It’s taking angels.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


The blood drained out of Dean’s face. “What?”

Sam continued, hurried and loud, “The widow? She said that years ago Miles said an angel needed him as a vessel. I think it happened when Metatron booted all them out of Heaven. Apparently, the angel, Isaiah, was living with him like a roommate for years.”

Dean stepped away from Mei, but she tilted her head and frowned. 

“It wasn’t just Miles, either. Mrs. McIntyre said a bunch of people at their church had similar experiences. So, is Cas with you? I’ve tried calling, he’s not answering his phone.”

Dean swallowed, jaw tight. “He’s not.”

Sam swore. “We need to solve this fast.”

Dean’s eyes slide over to Mei. “I think I have a lead. Meet me back at the motel, ASAP.”

Dean pocketed his phone and wiped his forehead. It was starting to sweat. His heart thrummed against his ribs, and the Mark sang inside his skull. Dean scratched at his arm.

“Everything okay?”

“Who’s this guy you think is responsible?” Dean snapped. She blinked, unaffected. 

“Name’s Jerome. Kinda a douche. Don’t really like him, but he does good work.” She shrugged. “Did I hear that right? Your partner said something about angels?”

Dean’s jaw clenched. He was long past the days of trying to protect civilians from the truth about what goes bump in the night; he didn’t flash it around, didn’t picket with signs in the road, but if it came up, he didn’t try and hide it either.

He didn’t know what to do here.

“How about we wait for my partner to show up before we answer that?”

  
  


.

.

.

Sam was surprised to see the woman from the crime scene in their motel room. He glared at Dean, but Dean just shrugged and explained that Mei knew their probable culprit. They needed her to find the killer, and hopefully Cas.

Once Ms. McIntyre finished her tale, and Sam realized what had happened to Miles in the months leading up to his disappearance, the first thing he did was call Cas. It went straight to voicemail. He tried again. Same result. He looked up Cas’s phone on his GPS app, and it showed his last location as the shady motel they booked. It didn’t quell his worry, though, and when Dean confirmed Cas wasn’t there, he sped back.

Sam didn’t know how long they had until the djinn killed Cas. 

Mei spoke after Dean finished explaining. “I heard you on the phone. Did you say that other guy with you was an angel?”

Sam looked at Dean. Dean nodded.

“Yes,” Dean said. “He’s an angel. There are angels, demons, vampires, faeries, werewolves, ghosts— all of it is real.”

Sam shot Dean a disappointed look, then prepared to approach Mei with a more comforting tone. She surprised him, though, with a huge grin.

“I knew it! Oh, I have to blog about this.” She pulled her cellphone out of her pocket, but Dean snatched it from her hands.

“Trust me, it’s for the best that most people don’t know the truth.”

“Right.” Mei rolled her eyes, but Dean continued,. “If people knew the truth, there’d be chaos. Monsters would have no reason to lay low and would hit the streets. There’s a lot of hunters out there, but not enough to fight against all of monsterdom. Besides, we need to find Cas. So you’re gonna tell us where we can find this Jerome guy.”

She sighed and crossed her arms. “That’s a good point, I guess. I always knew something was fishy though! So much stuff never made much sense. Like, a few years ago when a bunch of preachers were saying Lucifer had risen. It wasn’t just one or two—it seemed like everyone was convinced. Was that true?”

“We’re not gonna get into this right now,” Sam said. “Our friend is in danger, and we need your help finding him.”

.

.

.

Jerome lived down a dirt road just two miles from the Salt Lake. It was hidden behind thick brush, and there was no main road around for miles. The house was a wood cabin with busted shingles and a creaky front porch.

“Well,” Dean said, “if I wanted to snatch people and keep them hidden, this is a great place to do it.” He turned to Sam. “You got the goods?”

Sam dug through the box they kept in the footwells of the Impala. “Silver knife coated in lamb’s blood.” The setting sun reflected off the blade. Sam handed it to Dean. The Mark itched as he wrapped his fingers around the handle.

“That’s so cool,” Mei commented from the backseat. “Do you shove it in their brains?”

“Thanks for your help,” Dean said sincerely, “but we’ll take it from here.”

“I’m not going to wait here.”

“Yes,” Sam said, “you are.”

Dean exited the car, with Sam following right behind, an angel blade in his belt loop and a gun in his hands.

The porch creaked under their weight. Dean peered in through the dusty front windows, but couldn’t see much. Sam pushed the door. It opened.

The front door fed into an open space. The living room was on the left side, the kitchen on the right. Dust hung heavy in the air. Dean coughed and covered his nose with his shirt collar. Sam quickly did the same. They swept the front room, finding nothing, and walked down the narrow hallway. A bathroom with mildew in the grout was behind one door, a bedroom with just a mattress on the floor and a nightstand in the other. There was one final door at the very back of the hallway. Dean put his hand on the wood and knew Cas was behind that door.

He pushed it open.

The room was lit by a single hanging lightbulb, but the stairs were cast in shadows. Dean went first, being as quiet as he could. He had the silver knife ready, and Sam was right behind him.

Around the bottom of the stairs, Cas was on a medical table, unconscious. The djinn was beside him, tattoos glowing in the poorly lit room. The djinn’s head snapped up. He sniffed the air and frowned.

“Hunters. I was wondering when I’d see your kind.”

“Let him go,” Dean said tonelessly. Cas’s eyes flickered under his eyelids. The djinn looked down at him.

“Do you know what angels dream of? Surprisingly, not God. That first one dreamed of the manna that grew in Eden. Another one dreamt of her and friends singing in the stars. He,” the djinn gestured to Castiel, “dreams of a world where he doesn’t have to choose between his family on Earth and the one in Heaven.”

The djinn fiddled with the IV trailing out Cas’s neck. The blood sparkled slightly; little pinpricks of blue light. 

“The first one was a mistake, I admit. But angel blood. . . it’s—it’s euphoric. There’s nothing sweeter. And grace—” The djinn closed his eyes and grinned.

“Well, whatever gets your rocks off is your business,” Dean said. “But he’s not on the menu.”

“On the contrary, I’d say you’re all on the menu.”

Dean bolted to the djinn. The djinn threw his arm out and shoved Dean to the ground. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact. Within seconds, Sam was next to him, angel blade clattering on the ground.

Dean’s head swam. He lifted his neck to see the djinn fiddling with the IV bag.

“Let’s see how you taste,” he said, forked tongue poking out past his lips. They attached to the nozzle. The Mark flared at the sight. Dean’s arms shook as he pushed himself to his feet.

The djinn drank—and then his face soured. He turned around and spat; the nozzle was left open and Cas’s blood dripped onto the floor.

“What the hell? That’s disgusting. Putrid.” The djinn glared at Cas. “The grace is tainted.”

Dean slammed into the djinn and nicked him in the side with the knife. The djinn howled, grabbed the tail of Dean’s shirt, and slammed him into the wall. 

“You can dream too,” the djinn said, placing his hand on Dean’s face. Dean’s muscles froze as the venom drove into his veins. He tried to flex his fingers, but they wouldn’t budge. Darkness edged in.

Sam appeared behind the djinn, but was heard. The djinn spun around. Dean fell to the ground, and Sam managed to slice the djinn across the chest before he was thrown to the other side of the room.

Dean could barely feel his toes. He fought against the incoming darkness. 

_ Kill it, kill it, kill it _ , the Mark whispered inside his skull. The djinn was touching Sam’s face. Sam’s veins pulsed blue against his skin.

_ Tear it limb from limb _ . 

Dean managed to crawl an inch. Then another. Then another. He was as quiet as he could be, and thankful that the djinn was too focused on Sam to look over at him. The silver blade was in his grasp, the lamb’s blood slick between his fingers. Sam’s eyes rolled in the back of his head, just the whites visible, and he was pawing uselessly at the djinn’s face, trying to push him away.

“Shh,” the djinn said. “Shh. Just dream. It’s all okay in the dream.”

Sam went limp against the wall, only held up by the djinn’s one arm. With all his strength, Dean pushed himself to his feet and slammed the knife into the djinn’s neck. 

A bright light poured from its eyes and mouth. Dean closed his eyes, only opening them when it got dim once more. The djinn was crumpled on the ground, smoke pouring from its empty eye sockets. Dean stabbed it again. And again. And again. Blood spurted upwards, spraying him across the chest and torso, and he kept at it, all the rage rushing in his ears. For a moment, it was just him and the djinn—man against monster, hero against villain. This thing killed, and it hurt his friend, and Dean was going to make it  _ suffer _ for that.

There was a scream.

Dean blinked. Color slowly ebbed back in, and his vision widened. Mei was on the last step, mouth covered with her hands, face pale at the sight before her. Dean swallowed. The knife dropped from Dean’s fingers and clattered against the ground.

“Oh my god,” Mei whispered.

Dean couldn’t meet her gaze. He crawled forward, trying to ignore the burning in his back from her eyes. “Sam?” he shook Sam’s shoulder roughly. “Sammy!” He slapped Sam’s cheek. Sam mumbled, eyelids fluttering.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, words thick. “Check on Cas.”

Cas’s fingers twitched on the table. One hand reached for his neck, but he couldn’t find the needle. Dean went to Cas, and Mei sat beside Sam, still staring at the burnt corpse of the djinn.

Dean pulled the needle out in one swift motion. Cas’s eyes glowed blue with grace—much dimmer than what was typical. His eyes cracked half-open.

“Hey,” Dean whispered, “you okay?”

Cas nodded. “I’m fine.” His voice was barely audible. Dean sighed. His muscles were still tense, heart still pumped with adrenaline. He scratched at his arm.

Mei was attempting to help Sam stand up, but Sam was at least a foot taller than her, and she struggled to hold his weight. 

“Just let them rest for a minute,” Dean said. He pointed to the djinn. “You, help me with that.”

.

.

.

Dean was grateful for the cover of the night and the distance between them and the city. The dark sky obscured the smoke, and the lake would swallow all of the debris. 

Mei shifted on her feet, watching the crackling flames. “So, I’m guessing you’re not real FBI.”

“Real as you are.”

She snorted. Her gaze was fearful. Dean tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. 

“How much did you see?”

“Enough.”

Dean turned his head. Her eyes were pointed to the flames. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, you saved lives. Lots, I’m guessing. I bet this city is full of angels. That’s kind of cool.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. “Not really. Most of them are dicks.”

“Even the one that’s your friend?”

“Cas has his moments.”

“You still went crazy trying to save him.”

The flames danced in the wind. “He’s family.”

She kept looking at him. “He’s not well, is he?”

_ Putrid _ , the djinn said. The stolen grace. Poisoning Cas, inside and out. A ticking time bomb laying in wait under his skin.

The Mark burned. Dean rubbed at it under his jacket. He and Cas, two peas in a pod, staring at each other from different ends of a very narrow spectrum. 

“You’re not well, either, are you?”

“We’ve all been better.”

They waited, and the flames began to shrink.

“Thanks,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have found this place so quickly. Cas might’ve—” The words burned and shriveled up in his throat. 

“Of course.” She smiled. “I got to help save an angel. Don’t think just anyone does that.”

“You know you can’t blog about this, right?”

“Come on. It’s not like anyone would believe me anyway.”

Dean snorted. “Trust me. You don’t want that kind of attention.” 

She looked disappointed, but nodded. “Yeah. I can see that. No offense, but your life seems like it kind of sucks.”

“You have no idea.”

The fire dwindled down more. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

Dean looked up at the stars, searching past them, for a God that’s never been there “Hope’s never done much for us.”

She shrugged. “Something’s gotten you this far. Whatever it is, keep holding onto that. It’ll get you farther.”

They waited until the fire died down. Dean kicked dirt onto the kindling and covered the ashes with nearby foliage. He and Mei worked in tandem, hardly speaking a request for more dirt or leaves here and there. When it was all covered, and Dean’s shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, he shook Mei’s hand.

“Let’s check on them, and then we’ll get you home.”

.

.

.

By then, Sam was able to walk, and Cas was mostly lucid. He walked up the stairs stiffly, with Dean behind him for balance. Cas got into his space in the backseat. Dean debated for a moment, looked at Sam, and they had a silent conversation. Dean passed the keys over, and took the seat next to Cas. Cas leaned against the door, forehead pressed on the glass pane, wet with condensation. He shivered, tension shaking throughout his body.

Sam drove them to the motel.

“Are you guys staying the night?” Mei asked.

Sam looked at Dean through the rearview. Sam was tired too; dark bags hung under his eyes. 

“We’ll stay a few hours,” Dean said. “But I think this is where we part.”

“Thanks again, Mei,” Sam said. He shook her hand. “We owe you one. If you ever need help, give us a call.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” She shook her head. “I think if I see you guys in town, that means bad news.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dean said. 

They said goodbye. Cas endured a hug from Mei, and thanked her for her help. She grinned like a toddler on Christmas.

Cas walked towards the trundle bed, but Dean put a hand on his shoulder and steered him to one of the queens.

“I’m fine,” Cas argued. “I don’t need sleep.”

“Shut up,” Dean said. He pushed down on Cas’s shoulder, and thankfully, Cas didn’t resist going down on the bed. “You were basically drooling on yourself in the car.”

Cas signed, but curled on his side.

“You know, most people take off their shoes to go to bed.”

“I don’t need sleep.”

“Ugh.” 

Sam watched, amused, as Dean pulled off Cas’s shoes and chucked them in a corner of the room. Dean sat on the trundle, and Sam took the other queen. Within minutes, Cas was asleep.

“This can’t go on, Dean.”

Dean didn’t look at Sam. He kept his eyes on the rise and fall of Cas’s chest—wondering how this scene, here in the motel, was so different than just a few hours ago, when Cas was on that table. 

_ He dreams of a world where he doesn’t have to choose _ .

“He’s running himself ragged trying to find a cure for the Mark of Cain.”

“I didn’t ask him to do that,” Dean snapped. “I told both of you to drop it.”

“You can’t live like this, either. You lost control again back there.”

_ Blood and hunger and victory, delicious victory, again and again and again _ . 

“I got it back.”

“What happens the time you don’t?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Cas and I aren’t gonna give up on you.”

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. 

“We have to find his grace,” Dean said. “We can keep snatching them from the angel around the block, but that’s just pouring water into a bucket with a hole. We need to fix this.”

“We will.” Sam sounded so sure. Dean wondered how he could do that. “And we’ll fix you too.”

Dean curled his fingers into a fist. “You should sleep too,” he said, quietly. “Thing got you good. One of these days, we’ll take you to a neurologist. I know there’s mostly empty space between your ears, but what is there can’t keep taking these beatings.”

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

Dean smiled, but he didn’t feel happy. His arm still burned. 

“Just trust us, Dean,” Sam pleaded. “We’ve faced every other Big Bad out there. We can take this too.”

Mei said the same thing just hours earlier. If other people saw it, there had to be truth there. 

“I know you two will do everything you can,” Dean said. He was thankful that the people in his life would fight so hard for him.

Within ten minutes, Sam was changed into pajamas and under the covers. The lights were off. Dean laid on the trundle, staring up at the ceiling. 

The Mark kept him all night, whispering in his ears, and showing him visions of death, and smells of blood, that made his heart pound. 


End file.
